It Could Be Sunshine
by N2
Summary: (Iceman/Chamber) Sex isn't everything, but it's easier to get than what you really need.


**Author's Notes:** I owe a debt to Shala Atare's story "Dazzle," which was what turned me on to this pairing. This is set after the whole 'designer genes' thing. (I'd like to personally kick Marvel in the ass for giving my favourite character back just long enough to make me buy back issues and then getting rid of him again. Argh.)   
Written from Bobby's POV. Title stolen from 'Love and Rockets' as those with retro tastes probably guessed. 

**It Could Be Sunshine**

I think I might be falling in love. 

Hold the chorus of 'aws' please- I didn't say that this was a good thing. Quite the contrary, really. And no, I'm not being melodramatic about this. Allow me to explain… 

In my line of work, romance rarely works out well. And for the record, I'm referring to my career as a mutant crusader and superhero, NOT as a CPA. (CPAs don't get a lot of action either, but for different reasons.) 

See, the problem with always running off to save the world is that it leaves you precious little time for dating. And if you DO manage to get out of the house for social reasons, nine times out of ten you can't really relate to people who lead 'normal' lives. 

You know, like CPAs. 

That, I think, is the real reason heroes date other heroes. I'm sure that 'bonding-through-life-threatening-circumstances' thing helps too, but mostly I think we're like models or actors - we truly cannot comprehend 'normal' life. 

So, to sum up: unless you date somebody else 'in the biz' your prospects don't look too good. And if you do, there are all sorts of difficulties having to do with team relationships and dynamics, and the fact that one or both of you could die at any given moment. 

And you wondered why Spiderman was single so long? 

As I've illustrated, there's a plethora of reasons NOT to fall in love. Unfortunately, reason rarely figures in matters of the heart. It enters even LESS in matters of the groin. 

All that stuff I said right there…? I know it's true. But that doesn't keep the ol' hormones from acting up now and then. The solution to this is simple - cheap, secretive sex with strangers. And sometimes, cheap, secretive sex with the people you live with. 

We all know it happens now and then, and we all pretend it doesn't. You'll see Stacy straightening her skirt as she and Warren go separate ways in front of a suspiciously open closet and you don't say a word about it. We all understand that sometimes being alone is just too terrifying and we need to prove to ourselves that, yes, we made it through another day. 

Sex without love is accepted quietly. It's when you start to develop _feelings_ that it is deemed okay to rag you about it. 

I'm not talking through my hat here, either. Although I've tried hard to keep my sexual encounters separate from my home-life. In fact, I think I may be the least active person in the house in that respect. Or I was. Part of that, of course, has to do with the fact that many of my one-nighters were other guys. 

That was harder to admit than it should have been. 

I know people probably know, but like the quickies in the closet it's kept quiet. (Dig my powers of alliteration there.) I'm happy about that, and frankly thought I'd be able to trundle along in such a manner until the day I died. 

That all changed in December. 

Hank and I had returned home from Harry's Hideaway, and I admit we'd both had a bit to drink. Hank excused himself with a slurred utterance of great profundity and I collapsed on the Rec Room sofa to watch infomercials. 

I had watched 'the Ab-Flex' ad and was halfway through the RonCo Food Dehydrator' when the door opened. I turned and blinked owlishly at the doorway. 

*Oh, sorry. Didn't think anyone was in 'ere.* 

Jonothon. I waved a hand. "I'm not doing anything," I said before he could duck out the way he'd come. "You can come in." 

He did and I moved my feet so he could sit on the couch. His eyes were black smudges. 

"It's nearly three A.M.," I said after looking at my watch. "What are you doing up?" 

*Can't sleep. Got 'ome around two.* 

"Me too. Harry's." 

*Some pub. Band was playing.* 

"Any good?" 

His eyes crinkled - what passed for a smile with him. *No. They were shite. Bit of a brawl broke out so I left.* 

"Yeah?" 

*Well, not right away.* 

I grinned and he eyed me carefully. 

*Yer pissed,* he said, sounding mildly surprised. 

"No. Maybe. Only slightly." 

We sat in silence while Ron Popeil told us how easy it was to make our own raisins. I wondered who ate raisins often enough to care. 

"So," I said too loudly. "Meet anybody interesting?" The withering look I received in response made me wish I hadn't asked. 

*No. I do not go out to pick people up.* He focused on the TV. *It's too much bother. Generally, they can't handle it.* 

Hell, I've seen what's under those wrappings; it IS weird. I nodded. "Not comfortable, huh?" 

*No.* He sort of sighed, then. I found myself staring at his arms, which were bare. No leather jacket. He was very pale in the dark. *It'd be nice not to 'ave t'explain.* 

I nodded, suddenly mute. Ron told us that if we ordered now, we'd get a free set of steak knives. 

For the raisins? 

The damnedest thing about telepaths is that they always _know_. Jonothon turned and looked at me curiously, but too late. I reached out and brushed a finger up his arm. He didn't move. I scootched closer and my mouth found the hollow where neck meets shoulder and my hands found his waist, his hair. 

I tasted leather. 

He didn't push me away. I wish now that he had, but he didn't, for whatever reasons of his own. He pulled me closer and slumped over so I was on top of him, moaning softly and letting my hands roam as Ron Popeil promised us a can of spray-on hair with every purchase. 

That was the first time, right there on the couch. I remember half wishing that somebody would walk by the rec room and see us, stop us. It felt like a dream I just couldn't wake up from. After that we met a few times a month and engaged in cheap, secretive sex. If anyone noticed, they didn't say a word. 

I started dreaming about him. Not a big deal, really. "Drake," I said to myself. "You're just happy to be getting laid regularly." And I was. If I ran into him in the halls or passed him on the grounds neither of us said anything untoward, but in my mind I would be remembering his eyes, half-closed and smoldering as I moved against him. 

It was sort of like catching a cold. You think to yourself, "gosh, I think I may be getting sick" and then one day you wake up and you can't breathe properly and you're absolutely feverish, unable to think clearly about anything but staying in bed. 

Yesterday I found myself watching him, fascinated. He walks across a room like it owes him a favour, all long legs and brooding anger. I could only stare, and I guess I was making some kind of stupid face because Kurt poked me in the arm and raised his eyebrows at me. I shook my head and told him I was zoning. 

This, I decided, is getting out of hand. 

So I did what I do whenever I decide my life's a mess… I go to Hank. Brought coffee and Twinkies to his lab and acted goofy as I tried to figure out how to ask for advice. 

"Robert," Hank said to me, chewing on a Twinkie as he added sugar to his coffee with his feet. "Something's bothering you." 

"You got me, Hank. Head lice. Don't get too close - they'd have a field day with you." 

"Indeed." He looked at me slyly over his coffee mug, one eyebrow raised. "You've met someone, haven't you?" 

Hank knows me too well. I slumped. "Sort of." 

He tsked and just sort of watched me for a minute. If you look in his eyes you can see how fiercely intelligent Hank really is - it's one of the things that contributed to the crush I had on him when we were younger. 

"Okay," I said after devouring my last Twinkie and dropping the plastic wrapper in the garbage can. "See, the thing is… okay. I met this… person. And we've been, y'know, seeing each other off and on. But not dating or anything like that." 

"So this is a purely physical relationship?" 

I nodded and tried really hard not to blush. At least he didn't get super-clinical on me and call it 'mating' or something. 

"The thing is Hank, lately I've been kinda thinking that maybe I'd like to, I dunno, spend more time with this person. Like, when we're NOT naked." 

Hank smiled. "Why Robert, I do believe you're falling for this mystery lover." 

I shrugged. "I can't stop thinking about 'em." 

Hank nodded. "Well. If that's the case I think perhaps you should have a little chat with the object of your affection and see how he or she feels about the matter." 

I tried not to twitch when he tossed 'he' in there. "Yeah." 

Hank patted my arm. "Good luck." 

I snuck to Jonothon's room at about one in the morning, keeping close to the walls in a lame secret-agent-man attempt not to be seen. I felt conspicuous, embarrassed, and stupid to boot. Luckily I'm pretty used to feeling that way by this point in my life. 

I knocked softly and then creaked the door open without invitation. "Jono?" I asked. Wondered when exactly I decided I liked that name better than 'Jon.' 

*Jus' invite yerself in why don'tcher?* 

I entered and closed the door behind me. He sounded irritated, but no more so than usual. "Sorry. You busy?" 

He was stretched on the bed, fully dressed, presumably listening to the music emanating from his stereo. *Performing bleedin' brain surgery, wot's it look like?* 

I realized that I had no idea what I was planning to say. I looked at the alarm clock for inspiration. '04 - 01' glowed in red. "Happy April Fool's Day," I ventured. 

He sat up and blinked. *Please tell me you are not recruiting me for some bizarre prank.* 

"No, no. I actually forgot what day it was. I just wanted to talk to you. Can I sit down?" 

*Sure.* 

I sat down next to him. He was watching me with guarded amusement, leaning back, propped up on his elbows. I wanted to lean over and lick his stomach, but managed to exert some self-control. Go, me. 

"So… Whatcha listening to?" 

He titled his head sideways a little. *You came 'ere to quiz me about my musical tastes?* 

Oh yeah, everything was going exactly as planned! "Not exactly. I mean I'd like to know… about your musical tastes, that is." 

He was looking at me like I'd grown a second head. One that perhaps was capable of saying even stupider things than the original. 

I gave up. Sighing, I leaned forward so I wouldn't have to look at him, staring at the floor beyond my clasped hands instead. "You and I… Okay. Are you, you know, comfortable with, uh, us?" 

*Oh, you mean the buggery?* I swear it felt like he was smiling in my head. 

"Uh, yeah. But what I mean to say is… do you ever want, you know, more?" 

*More?* 

"Yeah." I raised my head and looked over my shoulder at him. "Like, maybe more than just, uh, 'the buggery'?" 

He blinked at me again, slowly this time. *If I didn't know better,* he said after a moment's pause. *I'd say you were suggesting we date.* 

I tried a smile and found it didn't fit. "Well… what would you think of that idea?" 

He sat up completely and leaned close to my face. I was hoping he'd tell me that it sounded 'bloody fantastic' but instead he said, *'Ave you gone completely mad?* 

"No," I said. I felt like I was 13 all over again - unsure and defensive. "Why? Is it such a bad idea?" 

*Yes,* Jonothon replied, shaking his head and standing up. 

"Aw, come on!" I said. As you can see, I should have been on the debate team in high school. 

*Bobby, we 'ave absolutely nothing in common.* 

"Opposites attract," I said lamely. 

Jonothon adopted an exasperated expression. *You don't know a thing about me,* he said, not unkindly. 

"Well, no," I admitted. "But I'd like to. That's my point." 

He looked at me and in that moment I wished I could crawl under the bed and hide to escape his gaze. Then he shrugged. *This is perhaps the lousiest April Fool's joke in 'istory,* he said. 

"It's not a joke!" I said, standing up suddenly. He looked at me, surprised, and I sat back down. Then stood up again. 

"Look," I said, deciding to be assertive, "I can't get you out of my head." I stopped, noticing that he'd raised his eyebrows in amused inquiry. You shouldn't say that to a telepath. "You know what I mean." 

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down that long, hawk-like nose at me. How is it that a kid can make me feel like such a child? 

"One date," I said. Pleased to report I didn't sound as desperate as I felt. "That's all I'm asking." 

He studied me for what felt like a very long time. I guess he saw something in my face, because eventually he nodded brusquely. *Okay. Thursday?* 

"Great. I'll meet you in the garage at eight." I got up and walked towards the door, pausing at his side. I smiled, more naturally this time. "See you then." 

*Yeah. Now naff off.* 

:

The café walls were a dark olive and the lighting dim enough that even Jonothon looked inconspicuous. Two old men were playing checkers, seated in burgundy armchairs near the café's front windows on the other side of the room. Other than them, we were the only patrons sitting indoors. 

"So," I said after taking a sip of my redeye and finding it too hot. "How are you?" 

*Are all your conversations so banal?* 

I dumped another sugar packet into my coffee. (Number five, I think.) He wasn't going to make it easy for me. 

"Okay, screw the small-talk," I said. "Let's do this like they did in 'Silence of the Lambs.'" 

*Yer want me to skin you and wear yer face?* He seemed highly amused. 

"No," I replied, then continued in my very best Anthony Hopkins voice, "_quid pro quo_. I ask a question and you have to answer it, then vice-versa. Deal?" 

He thought it over, dark eyes completely inscrutable. I expected him to tell me that there were no questions he wanted answered, but he nodded. *Deal.* 

I smiled. "Good. I'll go first. What did you want to be when you grew up?" 

He blinked. *When I was a little? An astronaut. Why ask that?* 

"Because it helps me get to know you a little better. And that was a question, so it's my turn again." 

*Oh, bugger.* 

I laughed. "What did you want to be once you got older?" 

He shifted, putting his elbows on the table so he could rest his head on his hands. *A rockstar.* 

"Seriously?" 

*Yes. My turn. Why did you ask me here?* 

"Like I said, I want to get to know you better." 

*Why?* 

"Uh-uh-uh… my turn." He scowled at me but didn't protest. "What were your parents like?" 

He started. *Normal,* he said slowly. I waited, watching him steadily. He shifted in his seat several times, avoiding my gaze. *Wot?* he snapped finally. There was something very familiar in his eyes. 

"Come on. 'Normal' is hardly a description." 

*It is when yer ain't normal yerself,* he snapped, crossing his arms and leaning back into a full sulk. After a second he sighed and unfolded, placing his hands on the table. *They're working class. Protestants. Vote Labour Party.* He sighed again, his eyes slipping away. *They… don't like mutants.* 

Here was something I could understand. "I gotcha," I said gently. Gave in to the urge to cover one of his hands with my own. He looked at me, dark eyes glinting with dangerous humour. 

*Quid pro quo,* he said. *And take yer hand off me.* 

I did, smiling. The way he said it, it hadn't been a rebuke exactly. 

*Right.* He looked off, possibly watching the old guys playing checkers, I dunno. When he spoke again there was something in his voice that was achingly vulnerable. *Wot do yer want from me? Love?* He shook his head, looking me in the eye again. *Because I don't think I can give you that.* 

The air suddenly felt too thick - it was like syrup, pouring itself into my lungs and making it hard to breathe. I swallowed, hearing my throat click. Everything was too loud; the sound of checkers clacking against the board was nearly deafening. 

I don't know if it was my expression or his empathy, but he suddenly looked sorry. *Robert,* he said, and shrugged. *Be realistic. We are desperate, damned, and doomed. There are no happy endings for people like us.* 

_Even the damned love_, I wanted to tell him. Instead I said, "I know that. I'm not asking for a happy ending." 

*Then wot?* Exasperation and some sort of mute longing that could not be heard but only felt across the link forged between his mind and my own. 

"I dunno. A beginning, maybe." I took his hands in my own again and would not let go, even when he tried to pull them away. "You make me feel something. I don't know if you'd call it love… it's more like the anticipation of love. Like something that could be real, if it was just given a chance." 

He didn't say anything, and I let go of his hands. 

"I want a chance," I said. I felt hollow, like I'd just spilled my insides all over the table. Which I guess in a way I had. 

I don't know how long we sat there, me with my head trying to hang and him just looking at me, watching. I was afraid to move. Finally, he stood up and the air seemed to clear a little. 

*You daft plonker,* he said with resigned irritation. *I don't know wot t'make of yer.* 

I smiled. It hurt… but only a little. "I get that a lot." 

*Hm.* Mental snort. He raised an eyebrow at me. *I can't promise anything.* 

I stood up as well. "I don't expect you to." 

We left the café together, and I felt as though we had come to some sort of understanding. What exactly it is we understood I have no idea, but I like to think that it was that we had something more than just desperation and that sometimes you have to just take a deep breath and step off the edge of the cliff, never knowing what lies below. 

I like to think that we came to understand, if only for a second, that everyone has a chance at love, or something very close to it, even the damned. 

And even CPAs. 

~end~ 

Constructive feedback is appreciated. Please make death-threats coherant, as I've had quite enough badly-written hate mails this month.   
-N 


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